


roses of war

by green_piggy



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Declarations Of Love, Doropetra Day 2019, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Racism, Performance Art, Slice of Life, Written for, im basically just (takes dedue in my arms) I'LL GIVE YOU THE WRITING YOU DESERVE, most characters are mentioned!, so basically as painless a route as possible given how fun canon is, super duper mild but just tagging to be safe, takes place in a merging of verdant wind and azure moon with all possible be students recruited, they're sooooo good y'all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:40:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21536674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_piggy/pseuds/green_piggy
Summary: With the everlasting war weighing them all down, Dorothea and Petra decide to perform a romantic play together to entertain the orphans.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Petra Macneary, Manuela Casagranda & Petra Macneary, Petra Macneary & Dedue Molinaro
Comments: 15
Kudos: 50
Collections: Dorothea/Petra Day 2019





	roses of war

**Author's Note:**

> written for Doropetra Day, which is today (23rd November)!! [check out the twitter that organised it and all the other awesome entries!](https://twitter.com/FEFemslash)
> 
> nothing much to say here (for once) - i really love them both and seeing a day organised for them was awesome!
> 
> hope people enjoy~

It all started when Petra, on her way to the training ground, spotted Dorothea waving at her from inside the greenhouse. Always wanting to spend more time with one of (if not, _the_ number one) her favourite people, she happily stepped inside.

“You are wanting something from me?”

“It’s nothing too major. Hopefully,” Dorothea said. She clapped her hands together. "I had an idea!"

Petra rested her behind on the corner of a row of plants. "Yes?"

"I just… I want to do something for the war orphans. We’re so caught up in battles that it feels like everyone just… forgets about them.” She sighed. “I know that isn’t the case, but…”

“No, I am understanding.” Petra rested a hand on her hip. “As far as I remember, neither you or me are assigned for the battle at the month’s end.”

“Oh, we’re not?” Dorothea’s eyes lightened as she let out a visible sigh, hand resting over her chest. “I shouldn’t be grateful, but… it’ll be a relief. The day I never have to step foot on a battlefield again will be too soon.”

Petra couldn’t understand the pain that fighting caused her - not when she’d spent her entire life hunting - but she _could_ understand the pain caused by ending human lives. Every time she thought she was used to it - the thick stench of blood and dead bodies, the squelch under her boots as she accidentally stepped on rotting flesh - each new battle would catch her off-guard. She knew she was far from the only one, and that, in a strange way, was relieving. It was good to know that the people she called companions treasured human life, didn’t allow the needless familiarity of killing to dull their compassion towards others.

Even before she had started to take human lives, Petra had always treasured the life of each and every animal she had hunted. It was the cycle of life, to take and to be taken, and with each successful hunt, she thanked the spirits that watched over Brigid and all life on it. Just as they met their end and would be reborn, so, too, would Petra, one day. No life could escape that fate.

“I understand,” Petra said. “What is it you are needing of me?”

“Hmm… I haven’t quite decided _what_ yet.” Dorothea hummed, resting a hand under her chin. “I’d love to bake them some food, but… our supplies are getting more and more limited by the day. Not to mention that I’m not particularly _great_ at it…”

“Ah, neither am I.”

"Just gimme some time." Dorothea winked. "I'll come up with something amazing!" Then, looking sheepish, she held up her muddy fingers, soil splattered up to her wrists. "For now, though, could you help me with these flowers? There's a lot of thorns on them. I need help snipping them."

"I would be happy to do so!" Her only plans had been training, so it wouldn't take up any of her time. Even if she had plans, she would gladly set them aside for Dorothea. Petra knelt down next to her, squinting as the sunlight refracted through the greenhouse's window and right into her eyes.

Dorothea handed her a knife. It was an old thing, the bottom of its blade starting to rust, and it seemed rather petite for someone of Dorothea's age and build; she wasn't a small woman.

She must have somehow sensed Petra's thoughts, for she frowned, eyes darkening. "I've had it since I was a child," she said, voice heavy. "I’ve... had to use it more often than I'd like."

Petra knew better than to offer comforting words; Dorothea would brush them off like rain gushing down a rose's petals. Still, she squeezed Dorothea's fingers before taking the knife's handle.

To be trusted with such a personal object like this… Dorothea was not an open person. Petra felt her heart warm, and she couldn't help her smile as she took a flower from Dorothea.

"Why the smile?"

"It is nothing," Petra said, still smiling. "It is simply making me happy, to be so close with someone as wonderful as you."

A surprised, disbelieving wheeze came from Dorothea's throat. Her fingertips tightened on the stem in her hand. "I wouldn't _quite_ say that," she murmured. "But - thank you, Petra. I'm very blessed to know you as well as I do. To have you in my life."

Petra beamed. They fell into a comfortable silence as they worked on the flowers, snipping them and preparing them for the ever-increasing rows of graves for everyone that had fallen in this bloody war.

* * *

A couple of days later, while Petra was sparring against one of the church’s knights, Dorothea came bursting into the training room, breathless.

“I got an idea!” she called, wincing as Petra thrust her blade at the knight’s chest, the blunt tip of the training sword hitting hard enough to wind them. Petra held her hand up and pulled the sheepish knight up with a small smile, watching them trip over themselves in embarrassment out of haste to leave.

“Oh, sorry…” Dorothea trailed off, hands loosely held together. “Did I interrupt?”

“Not at all.” Petra laid her sword against the rack of swords, all of them chipped and dented in various ways. It was surprising for the training room to be empty, but she supposed that most of them were wrapped up in preparations for the upcoming fight and other manners. “What is it you are having an idea for?”

“Remember what I said the other day? About wanting to do something for all of the children?”

“Ah, yes!” Petra clapped her hands together, smiling. “What did you come up with?”

“I was thinking a play!” She grinned at Petra’s confused face. “Nothing too extravagant or dramatic - just a little tale to lift their spirits! I’ve got a few ideas…”

“...What, exactly, is a ‘play’?” Petra asked, crossing her arms. “Is that not games and the like? I cannot think of many games that would be suiting - ah, _suitable_ \- for children.”

“Oh, no, no.” Dorothea laid a hand on her arm with a small chuckle. “Not _that_ kind of play. You know the performances I often put on back when I was with the opera company? Those are also called ‘plays’.”

“Ah… I understand!” Petra hummed. “How will we be doing this without a stage? I cannot think of anywhere suitable in the monastery…”

“We don’t need a stage or anything like that. I was thinking just the little area where the professor always has tea parties.”

“Would that not be a bit small? And all of the hedges…”

“Excellent point...” Dorothea gasped. “Aha! What about the little grassy area next to it, right in front of the dining hall? It’ll have tons of space for the children, and we can perform on the paths. We won’t need much room, and it’ll have enough entrances.”

“That is sounding very good.”

“Then it’s settled!”

Someone must have overhead them, despite the room's emptiness, for all of the former students had pinched in to help their little play as soon as word had broken out about what was happening. Ferdinand had slammed open the door, insisting that _he_ was to play the role of the dragon. Dorothea perhaps took a bit _too_ much glee at the notion of him getting stabbed, for she shook his hands hard enough to dislodge a person's shoulder.

(“I’ve never seen a bee as a dragon before!” she had teased. Ferdinand’s entire face had gone as red as his shirt.)

That same afternoon, Ignatz shyly popped by with Ashe behind him, asking if they could work on any props they may have required. Marianne and Bernadetta - two people who Petra had never expected to see together - quietly offered their assistance for any stitching or small clothing. Sylvain slid up to Petra and threw her a wink, offering his “flawless” services if she needed help wooing Dorothea. That short-lived plan of his had been ended by Felix dragging him off by his ear, who had then grumbled that they'd help out with _other_ matters if required. Leonie said that she had enough little scraps and knick-knacks sitting around that, if they needed any for any reason, to just give her a holler.

In just a few days, everything was ready.

* * *

The tale Dorothea had come up with was a simple one, a legend passed down through the streets of Enbarr for as long as the city had existed. It was a legend of how a young soldier had come to rescue a trapped princess from the clutches of an evil dragon (that part, about the beast being dragonic, was usually omitted in the tales, but Dorothea had insisted that it was true). However, the soldier, in a surprise twist, wound up kidnapped by the dragon, who held scorn for all of humanity. It was up to the princess, with blade in hand, to carve a path for herself, to slay the dragon and free the poor soldier who had just wanted to do right.

Of course, they hardly had adequate staging or props to act out the entire play. No tower or town could be painted out, especially not with the army's ever-decreasing funds. They'd been living off tiny portions and potatoes that had stems growing out of them for the last several days. A narrator would describe most of the tale; the fight scene between the princess and dragon would be the only scene acted out. As heartbreaking as it was, they simply didn't have the time or resources to do much more. After the war, though, Petra and Dorothea promised each other that they’d put on a play as grand and epic as possible.

Dorothea had insisted on playing the soldier, and had draped herself with enough jewelry to make her appear like the sun whenever it shone off her. It hung from her neck, her wrists, jingling together softly when she clapped her hands and giggled at Petra's befuddled look.

“It's all old stuff Hilda had,” she said, still laughing. “Oh, Petra, you look like a deer caught at dawn.”

“You are beautiful,” Petra blurted out, as if Dorothea wouldn’t be the most gorgeous woman in the world even if she were to dunk herself in mud. “I am just… surprised. That you are - a soldier.”

“What, a soldier can't treat themselves every now and again?” Dorothea flicked a painted fingernail, glistening a ruby red, against a pearl of her bracelet. “Now, more than ever, don't you think?”

“If it is what brings you joy, I will not criticise.”

Dorothea's face softened. She knelt down and gave Petra a gentle kiss on her cheek. “What would I do without you?” she murmured.

“Ah…”

Petra rested a hand over her warm cheek, on the spot where Dorothea had kissed her, and smiled.

“It’s just _wonderful_ to see everyone working together,” Dorothea said. “Sights like these… are why I love working in opera so much.” Petra followed her gaze to where Raphael and Dedue was chatting to one another as they heaved props into position. Behind them, Lysithea and Annette were handing out little bags of candy and snacks to all of the children gathering. At the corner of the hedge, Dimitri was crouched down, talking to a group of eager children. Mercedes and Lorenz were preparing drinks, bringing in jars of water along with countless cups in little baskets.

Petra, as always, had been half-watching Dorothea from the corner of her eye, so she caught the exact moment Dorothea's face fell. It was ever-so-slight; a tiny tug of her lips downwards, a small frown appearing, but to Petra, it was as obvious as the sky suddenly turning dark.

“What is it?”

Dorothea gave a rueful laugh. “That obvious, huh..?” She sighed. “I just… I wish Edie was here. Even Hubert. Why couldn't we..?”

Petra squeezed her hand. “Today is not the day for ruminating on such matters.”

Dorothea squeezed back. “Yeah, you're right.” Her smile softened. “Thanks, Petra.”

“You put my wings on _upside down!”_ came Ferdinand's deafening shout. Beside him, trying and failing miserably to not double over laughing, stood an hysterical Claude. Ingrid rushed over to assist him with his outfit, and a few seconds later, so too did Caspar. When Petra gazed around, she spotted Linhardt asleep against the bushes, several children curled up next to him.

“You should go finish putting on your outfit,” Dorothea said. “Oh, Ferdie, never change,” she murmured fondly.

“I thought this was my outfit?” Petra stretched her arms out, frowning. She was wearing her usual clothing, true, but... “I _am_ a princess.”

“I… suppose?” Dorothea was frowning, a hand resting under her chin. “You know, I was thinking more of a princess by Fódlan’s standards, but why let that limit us?”

“What does a princess of Fódlan look like?”

“A lot like I do, I suppose. Not like I’ve ever _seen_ one. And it would depend a lot depending on what region you’re talking about.” Dorothea’s face fell again. “I mean, Edelgard was a princess, before… she became the emperor. But I don’t think you’d ever catch her in an ornate dress.”

“Dorothea…”

Dorothea put on a smile, but Petra was surprised by just how sincere it was. There was a bit of melancholy, true, but her eyes gleamed with nothing but delight when she put her hand on Petra’s arm. “But I think you look wonderful,” she said. “And I think it’s about time we show these children about some of the things outside of Fódlan’s borders.”

"Would Lady Rhea be approving of this?"

Dorothea snorted, waving her hand. "Pfft. I don't see her here, do you? Seteth isn't as uptight as he looks. And Flayn's been tripping over herself to help us. I don't think any of them would mind."

"Ah… if you are sure."

"Even if they _did,_ you shouldn't let that stop you." Dorothea shook her head. "I won't claim to understand what you go through here, not being from Fódlan…" Now, she smiled. "And I know you already do whatever you want - and that's just wonderful. Don't ever stop being yourself. If you want to wear Brigid's traditional clothing, you do."

“I would like that,” Petra said, smiling back. “I would like that very much.”

Dorothea rested a hand over her chest. "And I'm sorry," she said. "For just - automatically assuming you'd want to do things Fódlan's way."

"Ah, you need not apologise, but… thank you." Petra smiled, pumping her fist. "I hadn't planned on changing."

“Then it’s settled!” She giggled. “Oh, but you _should_ go get your props, at least. I saw Dedue with them last.”

“I will go to him at once - thank you!”

“I should be the one thanking you, Petra,” Dorothea murmured, “but you’re more than welcome.”

* * *

“Please try to be careful with them,” Dedue said as he handed Petra a broken iron sword that had been painted in some… rather garnish colours. The handle, mostly, but speckles of it had splashed onto the blade itself. It was most likely done to make it apparent that it was not a weapon for battle, but this was a bit excessive. “His Majesty picked it up and broke the handle.”

“Ah…” Petra dared not ask _how_ that was even possible. “I see,” she said, somewhat lamely.

“I apologise for the hassle.”

“It is not of a hassle at all!” Petra assured. “I am thankful for your assistance.”

Dedue’s cheeks coloured, ever-so-slightly, and it caught the tips of his ears as well. It was, in all honesty, far more adorable than it should have been. “...You are welcome.”

“If there is nothing else, I will be going now.” Petra heaved the sword over her shoulder, along with a few small bags of clothing she no longer needed. It would have been rude to leave it unattended. “Thank you again.”

After she’d taken a few steps, Dedue’s quiet voice made her hesitant. “...Petra?”

“Ah - yes?”

“I…” He glanced to the side, lip pulled in tight in thought. “Thank you,” he eventually said. “For - not going with Fódlan’s traditions, for your outfit. It is good to see you in your country’s clothing.”

Petra smiled. “It is bringing me great happiness too. I was told, once, that much of people’s hatred and treatment of people like you and I is due to a lacking - no, _lack_ \- of education.”

“I would say it is not just that, but… you raise an excellent point.” Dedue put a hand under his chin, looking thoughtful. “Do not breathe a word of this to anyone else, please, but I - tire, of Fódlan’s ways, sometimes. Of their traditions, their social necessities, their culture.” He let out a heavy sigh, but the smile he gave Petra was warm enough to melt Faerghus’s snow in winter. “I miss my home dreadfully. It is - refreshing to see the culture of another. I would very much like to learn more about Brigid.”

That was, perhaps, the most Petra had ever heard Dedue speak in a single breath, or the most emotional she’d ever heard him. There was a resignation in his voice that was impossible to ignore, for it was one that Petra could understand all-too-well. When she had first come to Fódlan, having the beliefs of another country forced onto her everywhere she went, watching it celebrate days she had no idea the significance of, had set off an itch inside her that had been impossible to ignore. She never made any attempt to hide who she was or what she believed in, and that had drawn her scorn on more than one occasion. Her class had been nothing but accepting, but not every student had been so open-minded.

Things, though, were improving. Little by little, step by step, but they _were._

“I thank you - and I understand. In completeness.” Petra reached forward and took his hand, grasping his giant, calloused fingers around her own. Such gentleness in such roughness. “But do not be afraid. Duscur may be gone, but you - _you_ are still here.” She squeezed. “You should share your own culture with us. Do not be afraid to celebrate who you are.”

Dedue, to her surprise, squeezed back, smile soft. Petra pretended not to see the hints of tears in the corners of his eyes. “I have had a dear friend say that to me before,” he said, voice wavering. “Perhaps - perhaps I should.”

“You should!” Petra nodded. “Even just little things. Your days of celebration. The meals you enjoy. Your own religion. You shouldn’t - you shouldn’t try to hide who _you_ are.”

“I shouldn’t. You’re absolutely correct.” Dedue clasped her arm with his hand, smiling the widest she had seen him smile. “I cannot thank you enough, Petra.”

She rested her hand over his. “You are not alone, Dedue. I promise you this.”

“...Thank you.” He pulled back, glancing away. “I’ve held you back long enough. You must prepare for the play.”

“We will talk more later,” Petra said, and it was worth it for how Dedue’s face lit up. “About Brigid, and about Duscur! I promise.”

“...I look forward to it. Thank you.”

She smiled at him before turning away, breaking out into a small jog as she hurried to her bedroom to get changed, the poor, broken sword bopping on her shoulder as she did.

It didn’t take her long to get ready. Once she had checked herself over the mirror Dorothea had gifted her, she made her way to the gardens, smiling and waving at all of the children she saw on her way. They must have been latecomers hurrying to the event as a small queue was being shooed in through the entrance next to the dining hall by Seteth. Truthfully, she hadn’t even known that the monastery sheltered so many children.

She went further down, to the next little entrance that led to the small area, waiting for her cue to be called on-stage by Manuela. The woman herself spotted Petra and was quick to scoot over to her. She took the bag of clothes off Petra, tugging it over her own shoulder.

“You look _lovely,_ I do have to say.” Her hands brushed over Petra’s clothing, straightening out creases and tucking strands of hair back into their braids. “Truly, you’ve grown into a gorgeous young woman. I still remember you from all those years ago…” Manuela let out a hefty sigh, wiping at the corner of her eye.

“You do not appear to have been aging a day,” Petra said, smiling back. Manuela gave her a wide grin.

“Well, I’m glad _someone_ around here realises that!” She stood back, hands on her hips. “There we go. Perfect!”

“Thank you.”

“If anyone needs thanking, dear, it’s you and Dorothea for coming up with this idea.” Manuela’s smile turned solemn. “This war has been exhausting on all of us, I feel. Even just a single day of forgetting about it will do us all the world of good.”

"I am thinking so too!" Petra rested a hand under her chin. "Truthfully, this was not my idea, but Dorothea's."

"You're still going along with it, aren't you?" Manuela poked the rusted iron sword on Petra’s shoulder. "And, from the looks of it, helping out plenty. Don't be so hard on yourself, dear."

"Ah… thank you."

"Oh my, you're _blushing._ How adorable!" Manuela actually pinched her cheeks before coughing and collecting herself. Petra cracked a smile. "A- _hem._ I better go check on Ferdinand and the others. You look good to go - break a leg out there! I'll let you know when you're due to come on!"

Petra furiously shook her head. "I would rather not break anything!" she cried, but Manuela had already turned and walked away, heels clicking rapidly as her coat puffed out behind her.

...Was that another one of Fódlan's expressions?

"What a strange country," she murmured to herself.

She double checked herself, ensuring that she had everything. The sword looked… unstable, to put it kindly, but it would do. It wasn't as though this was a real battle.

A minute or so later, Claude's booming voice came over the hedges. "Welcome, one and all! I'm sure you all know what's happening, so I'll cut right to the point."

Petra peeked through a gap in the leaves. All of the children were enraptured, watching Claude with wide eyes as he spread his arms out and strutted back and forth, excitement spilling out of his every step.

It made sense that he was announcing the beginning. He was, after all, one of their army's leaders, and arguably the best actor of them all.

"—so let's get on with it, shall we?" He swept into an exaggerated bow, one that had the children squealing and clapping with excitement. It was heartbreaking, in a way, how easy it was to please them.

With a twirl, Claude hopped back and out of sight, grinning at a very exasperated looking Lorenz. Silence fell again, people shushing one another as the narrator was set to begin.

Petra did not appear for some time, so she sat down on the ground and made herself comfortable. She rested her sword across her lap and leaned back against the bush. She jolted when - of all people - Dedue’s voice broke the quiet.

Curiosity made her peek around the bush again. Sure enough, there stood Dedue, script in hand, words haltingly coming out in his monotone voice. He looked deeply, _deeply_ uncomfortable, the script crinkling around his fist. Several of the children began to murmur along themselves.

Eventually though, she saw his face brighten up and become less stoic. Just by a bit, only a fragment, but he might as well have been glowing as he continued to speak. His words grew more confident, more powerful, and Petra found herself as enraptured as the children were.

Indeed, she nearly stabbed poor Manuela when she tapped Petra’s shoulder.

“Be careful!” she wailed. “I’d very much rather _not_ get stabbed again, if it’s all the same to you!”

“I-I am sorry…”

“Oh, it’s fine, dear.” Manuela chuckled. “How can I stay mad at such a sad looking face? Are you ready to go on?”

“Yes.” Petra hummed. “Dedue is… great at this.”

“Claude insisted that he read the story, for whatever reason.” Manuela shrugged. “I don’t think anyone will ever understand what’s going through that boy’s head… but it’s paid off a treat. I never would have imagined he’d be so good at this!”

Petra had a nagging suspicion that she knew _exactly_ why Claude had volunteered Dedue, but some things were better kept to herself. “Neither would I. But he is excellent.”

“That he is.” Manuela clapped her hands. “But we’ll discuss that later! You’ll be on _very_ shortly, let’s get you checked over…”

It didn’t take long, for Petra had already checked countless times that she had everything necessary.

“Oh!” Dorothea cried out. Petra’s heart soared at the sound of her voice. “Can _anyone_ save me!?”

Manuela gave Petra’s shoulder a gentle shove. “On you go!”

Flashing her a grin, Petra nodded and leapt out onto the stage, sword in hand.

* * *

“Yield, fiend!”

Ferdinand whirled around, his wings flapping out behind him as he did so. When his eyes landed on Petra, he scoffed. “Ah, the princess herself, I see!” His voice grew cocky, and, for a moment, it was as if the Ferdinand from five years prior was standing in front of her, all eager overconfidence and good intentions executed poorly. “What brings _you_ here?”

“You know exactly what it is I want!” Petra pulled her sword out from behind her, slowly and with drama, listening to the children _ohhhh_ and _ahhhh_ as she did so. She heard a squeak of _“she’s so cool!”,_ and tried not to blush.

The blade gleamed in the afternoon light as Petra held her sword out. “Out of my way, or I will _make_ you move.”

“Ha! You are _nothing_ compared to me!” Ferdinand ducked and brought his fingers to his mouth. A blast of fire magic, looking almost like dragon’s breath, shot towards Petra. She weaved out of the way, bringing her blade down on Ferdinand’s arm and deflecting it at the last second. They continued like this for some time, parrying and feinting, until they drew apart, panting.

I will not let you pass!” Ferdinand roared. He looked like a rather adorable puppy, if a puppy were to have poorly made dragon wings taped onto its back. One of the wings was lopsided, and the other one had chips of paint flaking off the tips. He put his hands up and stretched his fingers wide, curling one of them. “This maiden chose poorly—”

_“Maiden!?”_ Petra saw Dorothea mouth from behind him.

“—for I am the most fearsome dragon in all of Fódlan - nay, the entire _world!”_ He let out another roar; again, sounding more like a puppy. “None can defeat me!”

Ferdinand trembled when Petra’s boot slammed the pathway. In the background, she could hear how the children had fallen into a captivated silence, hooked by what was happening in front of them.

“You are wrong!” she called. She thrust her sword high into the sky. The sunlight caught it at the perfect angle, forcing Ferdinand to hiss and cover his eyes. “For _I_ will defeat you! There is no power stronger than that of love!”

“How can you love someone who you have never met!?” Ferdinand demanded, quick to recover.

“I love _all_ of humanity!” Petra shouted back. She clenched her fist and took another mighty step forward. “I do not need to know each and every person individually to do that! You have gripped the people in your claws of terror for too long, and I will allow it to stand no more!”

Dorothea flashed Petra a couple of thumbs up, then went back to pretending to look terrified.

Letting out a low, ghastly chuckle that made several of the children and even Petra flinch, Ferdinand glared down at her with eyes like murder. “You,” he snarled, “are welcome to _try._ What can one measly human hope to accomplish against _me?”_

“I will end you!” With that, Petra dove forward, remembering only at the last second that this was a _play._ Her blade struck wide of Ferdinand, who performed a half-hearted attempt to swipe at her. She leapt back, flipping in the air, and when she landed, heard the cries and cheers of the children rising.

“Princess Petra! Princess Petra!”

All of them, chanting her name.

“Princess Petra!” Dorothea cried, voice shrill. The wink she threw her utterly ruined that effect. “Please, stand down! I’m not worth it!”

“For you, I would go to the ends of the world!” Petra grunted, ducking underneath Ferdinand’s arm and deliberately aiming between the legs. The audience let out a low _“ooooh”_ as her blade brushed the inside of his thigh. “Be quiet with your nonsense!” She twirled and pointed her weapon at Ferdinand. “Step down, now!”

“I will not back down _one step!”_ Ferdinand cried - right before he stumbled back multiple steps from Petra’s sword smacking his chest. One of his wings was in danger of falling off. The weak blast of fire magic he’d thrown out was carried away by the dying wind, scattered amongst the rallying cries of the audience.

It was time.

“You,” Petra snarled, gripping her sword, “are in my _way.”_

When her sword struck Ferdinand’s hand, the flimsy blade finally gave way, the middle of it cracking before it splintered in two. Petra stared at the handle in panic—

But Ferdinand cried, collapsing to his knees and gripping his chest. He flashed Petra a smile for a fraction of a second before he allowed agony to take over his features once more.

“How could I have lost!?” he wailed. “Is it… is it true..? That love…”

“Of course it is.” Petra threw her sword at his feet, the handle clattering against the tiles. She gave him not another glance, darting past him and bundling Dorothea in her arms.

“Oh, Princess Petra!” Dorothea cried, sagging in Petra’s arms with a hand held to her forehead. “I’m - I’m so sorry! Here I was, meant to save _you,_ yet _I_ ended up being the one who needed rescue!”

“You need not apologise,” Petra whispered.

“You need to speak louder,” Dorothea murmured, her face impossibly fond. “We’re performing.”

“Ah—” Petra coughed and tilted her head back— “YOU NEED NOT APOLOGISE!”

“Maybe a bit _too_ loud,” Dorothea said with a small wince. Behind them, murmurs were beginning to rise.

“Then what tone _am_ I to be using?” Petra hissed. In the corner of her eye, she could see Claude shoving Dedue on-stage, folding the script in his hand.

“And _as we have just witnessed,”_ Dedue began hurriedly, “true love conquered all. The evil, vicious dragon was defeated…”

His words faded into nothingness as Petra smiled at Dorothea, the attention of the children now firmly on Dedue. Petra refused to let go of her, refused to give up this warmth and love.

_It's just a play,_ she had to remind herself. _This isn't war._

...But it wouldn't always be acting. It wouldn't always be the case that Dorothea was only a crudely made dragon away.

War was a terrible thing. Dorothea could die. _Petra_ could die. Either of them could be killed - by an arrow, by magic, by a blade - and all it took was a single blow. A single miss in combat was all the enemy needed to end a life.

The worst thing about war was this: you didn't fight monsters. You fought humans. People who held on to their beliefs as fiercely as you did. People who just happened to be on the other side. They had friends, family, loved ones, just as you did.

Who were you, to say you deserved to live more than they did?

And, yet, Petra couldn't let herself falter. She had too much to love and protect, and she refused to let anyone take that away from her.

Only, she had no say in that. She could not control fate. Some things… simply were meant to happen.

_That_ was why you treasured every moment you had. You never knew when it would be your last.

Performing this play, watching Ferdinand crumble to the floor, seeing Dorothea wide-eyed and shaking and powerless to act…

Even if this was only pretend, the day could very well come that it wasn't.

Petra could not name the emotion that overwhelmed her in that moment, but it made her clutch Dorothea tight against her chest, her hands resting in a sea of gorgeous auburn hair.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I do not say that enough. I love you, Dorothea.”

If Dorothea’s eyes grew glassy with tears, Petra wasn’t going to comment on it. Her chest only swelled greater with warmth when Dorothea sniffled. Dorothea pulled away and rested her hands on Petra’s cheeks. She brought their foreheads together, close enough that Petra could count every eyelash of hers, see every inch of darkness underneath her eyes, every stressed wrinkle and flawed skin.

She was gorgeous. She was so, so very gorgeous.

What Dorothea was doing was a common expression of love back in Brigid. The realisation of that - that Dorothea had done research into _Petra’s_ culture, that she was expressing her love _this_ way - made tears bloom behind Petra’s own eyes.

She wanted to press the words into her neck, her shoulders, every part of her skin. _I love you, I love you, I love you._

“I love you too,” Dorothea breathed. She hiccuped, a tear slipping down her cheek, Petra thumbed it away at her dimple. “I’m - I _love_ you, Petra.”

None of their senses paid any attention to anything else around them. The cheers of the audience, the joyous chatter between leaders and soldiers, fell on deaf ears. The birds perched together on hedges, the kind looks the others were giving them, failed to reach blind eyes. The air’s chill, the homely scent of food wafting from the kitchen, failed to affect their senses.

In that moment, all they had was each other. Now, and forever, that would be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> [i have a twitter!!](https://twitter.com/greenpiggles)
> 
> hope you enjoyed the fic! kudos and comments are always greatly appreciated <3


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